Page 11 of All the Chaos of Constellations
“Alright.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I won’t.”
Cyra’s lips pursed, and she jabbed him swiftly in the ribs with her elbow.
It was impossible to forget about the Season. It was all everyone ever talked about in the weeks leading up to Midsummer. Then as soon as it was over, they were already planning for the following year. Whenever Queen Elowyn lifted the Veil, allowing anyone outside of Aeramere to enter, the whole damn continent lost their minds. Everyone who was anyone was suddenly in the market for a mate. For two straight weeks, mothers tried to marry off their daughters, sons were beseeched to take wives, alliances were formed, and for some unlucky bastards, souls were fated. Midsummer was a frivolous celebration of mundane courtship encouraged by overzealous matchmakers who chose their victims with precision. Though Asher supposed it wasn’t such a terrible situation for those who actually believed in love.
Another wretched notion.
Love was a lie forged for the fools. For the weak.
He’d witnessed the suffering of such an affliction firsthand. Love was the reason his mother was dead.
Cyra cast a hasty look around them, then rose on her toes, whispering into his ear. “You won’t believe some of the rumors I’ve heard.”
“You’re probably right.” He’d rather dance naked in a faerie circle in the dead of winter than participate in any kind of gossip.
“Ash,” Cyra chided, swatting his arm once more.
“Okay, fine.” He couldn’t be too insolent, she was all he had left. “I’ll indulge you.”
She bounced on her toes, positively beaming with eagerness to divulge every last confidence while participating in the spread of rumors that likely held zero truth. “I heard Calfair Skyhelm from House Galefell wants to take a mortal bride. Can you believe it? A human.”
Cyra’s face scrunched at the unpleasant thought.
“A mortal?” Asher considered Calfair’s reasoning. He was the heir to House Galefell and no doubt under pressure from his father to find a wife. While there were plenty of females to choose from in Aeramere, it made little to no sense for Calfair to choose a mortal. It wasn’t unheard of, plenty of fae and mortals joined together. More often than not, male fae took human lovers. Some were voluntary and some were coerced. It made Asher’s skin crawl to think of some of the humans he’d seen, trapped and entranced, dancing for fae lords and ladies like enchanted puppets. The glazed look in the humans’ eyes always set him on edge. Even then, they never married. The mortals were merely paramours, toys the fae could play with on a rainy day. For Calfair to want to marry a human, the woman must be of noble or royal birth, come with a hefty dowry, and a possible trade agreement.
Maybe it wasn’t such a poor decision after all. Still. “Wouldn’t she age?”
Fae were more or less immortal. They could die…eventually. An interesting choice for Calfair.
Cyra shrugged, peering around the observatory. She noticed every detail, every mistake. “I don’t know. The humans some of the fae keep as pets don’t age, but they’ve been spelled. I imagine she’d begin to wither away, shriveling up like the petals of a dying rose.” She snorted. “I’ve heard that when women in the human kingdoms age, their moon cycles stop completely and their breasts sag down to their navels.”
“Cyra, that’s hardly appropriate conversation for a lady of House Emberspire.” His attempt to scold his sister was foiled by the grin tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Is that all?”
“Of course not.”
“Damn.” He was hoping they were done with all the talk of hearsay and whispers.
Her laughter rang out, drawing the attention of those around them. Their answering smiles were sincere enough. Let anyone look at his sister the wrong way and he’d end them on the spot.
“Lilith told me the Prince of Brackroth is attending the Season this year.”
Lilith Vylera was Cyra’s best friend. Though she was a notorious gossip, she was also incredibly reliable. She claimed to have a skill for being in the right place at the right time, though Asher surmised her real power was her blatant sexual prowess and the ability to pry the truth from willing lips through dreams and sex.
“The Prince of Brackroth?” Asher yanked on the tie knotted at his neck, loosening it. The observatory was suddenly stifling. It had been some time since he’d heard the prince’s name in passing. “As in, Prince Drake Kalstrand of Brackroth?”
“The very one,” Cyra confirmed, tucking a loose strand of fiery hair behind one pointed ear. “I hear he went to war for Faeven against one of their own.”
Asher wouldn’t trust Drake Kalstrand in a battle if they were wearing the same colors and fighting on the same side. He’d sooner expect a blade through the back than stand alongside him in a war. “Is that so?”
“Mm.” Cyra made a noncommittal noise. “Apparently, some queen went rogue and tried to overtake Faeven with dark magic. But Prince Drake owed the High Queen of Winter a favor and she called it in, asking for his assistance in saving their realm. Quite a heroic story, actually.”
Something cold and dark twisted inside of Asher. “There is nothing heroic about Drake Kalstrand.”
“Considering most of the speculation surrounding him seems to be of a nefarious nature, I don’t doubt it.” Cyra kept her voice low, the barest of murmurs beneath the teeming buzz of uninteresting conversation. “Is he really a shadowblade assassin?”
“He istheShadowblade Assassin. The only one left.” Asher happened to know it for fact and would venture to say that all the stories Cyra heard about Drake were probably true. But he wasn’t about to tell her as much. Though with Drake arriving for the Season, Asher’s gut clenched. It could only mean one thing…he owed the Shadowblade Assassin a favor, and Drake had come to collect. “I suppose it is time for him to return to Aeramere.”
“Return?” Cyra’s brows quirked at his choice of words. “You mean he’s been here before?”
